


until it's not

by 0222fm



Category: LOONA (Korea Band)
Genre: Dissociation, Domestic Violence, Gen, Other, POV Second Person, betaless again, this fic is a substitute for poppers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 18:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19856548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0222fm/pseuds/0222fm
Summary: wake up! the phone is ringing and we have to leave. don’t answer it, let it ring.





	until it's not

**Author's Note:**

> **please _do not read_ if triggered by domestic violence**

hong kong is never cold, but it might as well be. your bare shoulders and sore feet move freely down a busy street, the noise slowly begins to penetrate the ringing, banging inside your ears. it’s 11 p.m., and you’re looking for safety. 

street vendors are beckoning for you to try their late-night snacks; and although each treat seems delectable, you decide you’ll wait until the early morning. you know that you’ll be hungry by then, or at least you hope you will be -- you haven’t eaten in what feels like days. it all depends on if you get your appetite back. 

sometimes it’s great that the majority of society gets out of work late, that only means more bright sky for you. but then again, why can’t others simply go home instead of going out after work? sometimes, you want to own the night, too. tonight was your turn for custody. 

you turn off of the overcrowded street and onto a quieter one that could pass for an alleyway. it’ll be lonely and dark for the next block, you know, but after that, it’s busy until it’s not. now you have a chance to think, finally. collect yourself. ground yourself. who are you? do you know? what are you doing there -- right here -- at this specific, particular spot? how did you get here? what happened to you? walk slower, you need more time to think. one step after another, that’s it. you’re doing great. now, think about who you are. what did you have for breakfast? why did you wash your hands twenty-three times this morning? do you know why? do you think you’re hiding something from yourself? 

it stopped raining about an hour ago, but the streets still haven’t drained all of the water. the neon lights hung above your head are reflecting in the puddles you’re trying to avoid. having wet feet would not make for a great night -- it’s never made a great night. but it’s only for this moment -- in the seconds of lonesome puddle-dodging -- that the air doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating, like it had dug itself inside your spine and invaded all your nerves, choking you from the inside out. what if it had crawled down your throat instead? is that the reason why it’s no longer in the open? is that why your feet feel heavy? has it sunk into your blood and is now infecting the rest of you? is it too late? keep moving, stop thinking. there is no time for this. the street is coming to a close -- it’s almost here. perhaps after turning the corner, you can start fresh. 

but it comes crashing down again -- the fog inside your mind -- and all of the sudden noise, lights, people are too much. fight it off. find a place to sit. you’re sitting, a restaurant with wallpaper -- wait, are you alone? -- that’s all too familiar, but there is something instinctively missing. voices from outside turn into a murmur through the glass and disappear completely at the back table you’ve chosen to sit at. the muddy footprint-patterned floor was just painted with your own and the yellowing paper on the wall can’t be distinguished between being naturally yellow or a decaying yellow. the former seems to be too far stretched: the smells that encapsulate this space aren’t for the faint of heart, perhaps even the wallpaper is sneering away. you place your elbows and forearms on the crusting wooden table; there are scratches from years of wear and rowdy high school kids who think carving their name into anything and everything is the way to get about life. fight the urge to add your own. don’t leave a trace of who or where you are or that you exist at all. 

the cup holding chopsticks and spoons and the napkin dispenser holding up the menus are pushed too close to the wall, you don’t want to touch it. but don’t you know the tastes offered here by heart? it’s comfortable, for now. the woman comes to you and asks what you’d like in cantonese: cold tea with two lemon slices, you order. stomaching something other than flavored water right now shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t be possible. maybe later. 

the winding of the fans above your head pick up bits of the hair of the elderly man sitting at the table in front of yours, it’s kind of funny. none of the hair of his business partners (or are they his friends?) he is sitting with is doing the same. maybe they all used hairspray or gel or something this morning besides him. is your hair doing the same? you didn’t use any product this morning. you didn’t even have time to shower. are people looking at you? are they thinking about you? are they analyzing you? you ask for your cold tea with two lemon slices in a to-go cup instead. you leave -- the air outside is hot, but not as hot as the air inside. take a deep breath, it’ll be alright. but it’s time to move again. you went out the backway of the restaurant -- you made your escape. it’s too dark back here, though, and the walls are caving in. getting out of here should be the first thing on your list, but instead not getting your shoes wet from the puddles blanketing the cracking pavement is. besides, if someone were following you, the squish of your shoes would be a dead give-away. don’t run, be natural. as natural as one can be walking down a dark alleyway with a styrofoam cup of cold tea and two lemon slices. drink it, naturally and confused, because you’re lost. 

you blink your eyes and keep them shut. the darkness will bring you comfort, like you’re wrapped up smooth sheets and now you’re awake and in bed. don’t leave. look at the clock: it’s 9 p.m. what day is it? yesterday. don’t get out of bed. it’s a trap, you know this. try to go back to sleep. maybe when you wake up, you’ll realize that all of this had been a dream and everything will go back to the way it was before tonight. can you feel the sickness of these sheets? who knew satin could feel like this. it’s supposed to be soft, but not in hong kong. sweat is everywhere, and the texture -- the supposed to be smooth texture -- is sticking behind your knee and in the crease of your neck and shoved up into the pit of your arm. there is someone in the room. don’t open your eyes, don’t look, keep them closed. you’re not asleep, but pretend to be. pretend. pretend. there is nothing else that you can do. just pretend. nothing has happened yet. they are at the edge of the bed, their presence is overpowering. you can feel it, hear them breathe. just one more ounce of pretending before they kneel next to you: it’s like clockwork. one breath, now stir. now smile. don’t look at their face, keep your eyes closed. don’t think of their face, keep your mind closed. the longer you wait, the more you will be able to leave. but do you want to? or should be stay? once more deep breath. now open your eyes. 

why are you back in the restaurant, the same one with the crusting wallpaper and the tile floors? what’s different? center yourself: feel the grooves of the wooden table, are there any piece begging to prick you? how about the fans? are they spinning? and where did the sound of squishing shoes against the dirty floor go? straighten your back; stretch, just a little. ground yourself. 

you hear a voice and it’s coming from right beside you. it’s familiar, you know it. you’ve heard it before, time and time again. it travels from their lips and swirls around the grooves of your ear and slides in to tickle your eardrum: it’s safe, and it’s deeper than yours. but why do you miss it? they brush their shoulder against yours, and you’re supposed to laugh. "viian" they say, you think they told a joke, so you laugh -- be natural. place your elbows on the table and rest your chin on the palm of your hands, it’s natural. wait for your food and make small talk, it’s natural. just whatever you do, don’t look them in the eye, even though it would be natural. 

place your foot firmly on the ground -- is that glass? you can feel the stinging edges of the shard outline against your skin. why is it there, do you remember? sounds shatter -- someone hit the mirror and it fell, breaking into pieces big and small. there was screaming, too. what was their voice saying? can you make out the words? make out the words. something began with an “sto” -- that’s a fact, but what is everything else made up of? the sounds all jumble together, the banging, panging noise is back. a constant clockwise rumble hovers around your head. colors of red and black and white and blue tumble in front of you. watch it, you paid for it. get your money’s worth. someone bumps into you and excuses themselves; you’re sitting on a rickety plastic chair and the humming leaves your head but is still all around you. twenty machines are spinning, water bubbles splash against the see-through doors and colors swirl around you. why are you doing laundry? we don’t have time for this. take your clothes out, we should go. walk towards the machine that holds your items -- the water is tinted. stop the cycle and open the door: it takes thirty seconds. now, yank it open, stick your arm in, and go. 

is the scent enticing enough? or is it the yelling the shop owners do? you’re pulling out spare change and a crumpled bill from your pocket, but it’s still not enough for grilled squid. your eyes scan over the coins and paper in your palm once more: is it really not enough? you’re finally hungry. someone places another bill in your hand; their fingers are chalk-like with broken nail beds and linger a bit too long in front of your eyes. a “thank you” spills and you feel yourself smiling. do you know them? you do. do you trust them? they ask if you want to get a drink; it’s the crusty yellow place again. you feel the grooves on the table. ground yourself. bottles of alcohol clutter up the table and the panging, banging is back. your body feels heavy. let your tongue run against the front of your upper teeth, and now behind. drag it along the roof of your mouth, now swallow. what does it taste like? is the flavor back? everything is lucid and you feel a hand on your shoulder, asking if you’re alright. you say yes and rest your head against them, trying not to fall asleep (although the bumpy car ride is preventing you from doing so). you must not fall asleep. 

why are you taking off your shoes? if you put them in the washing machine, it will be too loud. you feel the cement-like linoleum floors beneath your toes -- ground yourself. it’s dark out and all you want to do is to fall asleep, but you can’t. falling asleep in front of people you don’t know is never a good idea. pinch yourself -- your cheek. make sure that you're awake and this is real. is it? it’s not a trick question. now watch the water and how it spins. is it relaxing? follow it: the red sock, it’s stuck to the clear opening and then a combination of dirt, water, something red, and soap splashes against it to wash it off. it disappears into the mix of other clothes you had shoved inside. part of you don’t want those clothes anymore. do you want to keep them? put your shoes back on and let’s leave. leave them, too. we don’t need them. 

the floor is wet; the tile is too slippery -- let your toes feel the grout and the contrast between the pearl-like smoothness of the tile and the cracked-rubber in the seams. the bathtub is running. turn off the faucet before it overflows even more place your hand over their open eyelids and close them, because they can’t do it themselves. it’s hard to distinguish what is shine and what is reflection with the shards of mirrored glass sprawled throughout the bathroom floor, being drowned by water. make sure not to step on them. there is already blood on your hands, you don’t need it anywhere else. it’s time to go. wait. 

look at yourself; the few pieces of mirror left where a whole used to be are still useful. what is wrong with your skin? that’s not what you should look like. the reds and the blues and the yellows and the orange and the purple, the caked blood peeking from between your lips and under your nose, the spidering veins and freckles bursts of blood stuck beneath your skin, leave. grab your keys and go. 

hands are on your shoulders and you’re thrown back, elbows and then shoulder blades and then hips knocking against a wall in your apartment. there are words being said to you, words that you can’t understand why they are being said. something began with a “stu” -- and that’s a fact, but what is everything else made up of? the sounds all jumble together; the banging, panging noise is back. and although your body is moving, it’s not you who is doing it. your mind is telling you to run, but your body is unable to cooperate. you’re supposed to leave. they are coming. hands with chalk-like fingers and broken nail beds linger a bit too long on top of your head. it could have, would have, should have been sweet. but they soon dig between the strands and yank your head away from the wall. look: your reflection is there in the darkened window, the night sky not doing any justice. if only it were day, you wouldn’t be able to see yourself like this. if only you could get away. if only you never stayed. 

wash your hands. you have a combination of dirt and blood under your fingernails. there is no brush to get under there, so use another fingernail. the caked red needs to leave. you don’t need blood on your hands. you want to use soap, but don’t -- it may sting. there are deep cuts in your palm and a few knuckles are bruised. but it’s fine. you’re alright now. go get something to get. you’re not hungry but you should be. who knows, maybe a street vendor or two will have something that you're craving. first, you need to leave the bathroom. put your hand on the doorknob -- they are trying to get in. why are they so strong? use your shoulder, use your bare feet to press into the stale tile. they can’t come in here. keep pushing. you can do it. don’t let them in. there is yelling, and you know it’s them. they keep screaming to open the door. don’t listen to them. the pushing is stronger, and you wish you could fight back. but you can’t. the door is creaking open. millimeter by millimeter, it’s opening. you have to keep it closed. but they’re pushing. use strength in your legs. use everything you have. millimeter by millimeter, it’s still creeping open. they’ve stuck a few fingers in, prying the door open further. is it too late to slam it closed? your body is tired and already sore from trying to get away. your feet are slipping. they are pushing harder. ground yourself. where are you? who are you? what can you do to change it? fight harder.

wake up! the phone is ringing and we have to leave. don’t answer it, let it ring. unstick the satin sheets from your damp limbs and let’s go. that’s right, swing your legs over the bed and place your toes on the carpeted floor. it’s wet. you left the bathtub running, didn’t you? all night, too. don’t go near the bathroom, don’t even try. unless, of course, you’d like to step on broken glass. 

you step back, leaning against the bathroom sink. cold porcelain is being stained with your fingerprints. this eerie cold sucks the heat from your palms, but doesn’t cool you down. how could you cool down? they’re coming in. as soon as you let the pressure fall, they must have felt it. and now, they’re here. coming for you. open hands reaching for your throat, and your own gripping their wrists. the finger-stained bruises from the last time only faded a week or so ago, and now they’ll be back again. kick them. you know from times before that it won’t do much, but try. you try not to look into their eyes, but you do: they mean it this time. their broken nail-bed fingers mean it, pressing further into your windpipe and black speckles start to form in your vision. unplucked eyebrows bead with sweat, crinkles and wrinkles litter skin, and there is no soul there. why do you love them?

they take you, throw you, and you reach out to catch yourself, palm going straight into the bathroom mirror. large and small shards alike scatter into the sink, smaller pieces sticking into your skin. you know they are there -- you can feel them -- but there is no time to take them out. you have to fight back this time. grab a shard and swing. what will it hit? it doesn’t matter all too much, does it? just as long as this stops. don’t look. you hear a gasp and you can feel their anger radiate -- you feel their hands on your shirt and they force you to turn. they’re wet. it’s red. the mirror shard is thick and stuck near their collarbone. their stained fingers leave a mark on your shirt. shove your hands into their chest; you push them back, and the back of their knees trip over the edge of the bathtub. they fall in, and after a ‘clunk’, they are quiet. turn on the faucet just to make sure. your unsteady fingers reach for the chrome and twist until water starts pouring out. are you going to let them drown?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> if you're absolutely confused as to what is going on, then i did my job.  
> this fic explores vivi in a dissociative state after she defends herself from an abuser (a (now ex) lover); the narrative is essentially her own conscious going through her present, but constantly reliving bits of the past as if they are currently happening. it's chaotic and inconsistent, just like that state of mind.  
> this fic was heavily inspired by suzy's ["yes, no, maybe"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b34ri3-uxks) and is basically a written retelling of what i interpret the music video to be
> 
> (i'm working on the horror fic... and a new chuuves Thing... i just... needed to get this out of my system lmao)


End file.
